


Motivations

by phipiohsum475



Series: Boy [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom!Mycroft, Drunken Brawl, M/M, Motivations, Sub!John, fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 03:25:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2636252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has been lying to himself for years. He was never in control of his own happiness, his own pleasure; he always delegated his well-being to those around him. At least with Mycroft, it was honest, forthright, contractual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Motivations

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd nor britpicked. Feel free to (kindly) point out any errors!

John’s skin crawled; the fury like an itch in his veins. It spread from the tips of his fingers, forming clenching fists; churning in his gut aching to explode. He found himself at the bar, searching to quench the rage with the soothing burn of whisky.

Mycroft had been off in some small Asian country for the last ten days, and John had been craving him since day three. He felt disgusted at himself for wanting, no, _needing,_ the touch of his Sir, for realizing how much he craved to be his Boy. He had no clue how much he needed the reassurance of “Good Boy,” the harsh punishments, the gentle care, the soft lovemaking, the vicious fucks, suffering through the pleasure of Mycroft’s demands.

John was pissed. How could he have fallen like this? He’d once been so happy; so content; that he didn’t realize his entire world was wrapped up in that brilliant, severe, stoic, ginger god of a man. How had Mycroft made him so intensely at peace? John couldn’t any longer regulate joy or sadness, pleasure or grief without the firm hand of a master. What had become of him? How had he lost his ability to maintain his own happiness?

John realized with a start that that hadn’t been true in years. As an adolescent, his grades, career choices, all designed to bathe himself in the praise of his parents. In Afghanistan, he’d relied on his ability to save his men, the comforts of Sholto before those tragic events. Afterwards, Sherlock ultimately saved him from himself; Sherlock ordering him about, controlling him, leading John into danger.

John has been lying to himself for years. He was never in control of his own happiness, his own pleasure; he always delegated his well-being to those around him. At least with Mycroft, it was honest, forthright, contractual. But it might be days before Mycroft came home, and John had needs.

He finished another shot of whisky, and a bloke at the end the counter spoke up.

“You’re him, innit ya? That sucker who wrote about that fake detective? Right arse, he was.”

John is next to the man’s side before he realized he stood up, and stuck a finger in the man’s face, “Listen you goddamned wanker, you didn’t fucking know him, you don’t know what the fuck you’re on about, and I’ll wipe the goddamned smirk of that horse’s arse of a face if I hear you utter another bloody word against that man.”

The burly man, clad in plaid, seemed oblivious to the fury and rage rising in John’s voice, and the taut readiness of his body for a fight, kept talking, “Ah right, forgot yer a coupla poofters; didnae mean to insult you bloody shirt lifters.”

John struck quickly, and John struck hard. He felt the satisfying crack of the man’s nose under his first, the itch beneath his skin started to boil, and he felt something akin to pleasure flush underneath. The man reeled, but gathered himself, the bartender barked an order for them to take it outside, and John stared the man down with unmitigated malice. “Fine. I can fuck him up anywhere.”

“Oi, wanker, I’d like ter see ye try.”

They bounded into the alley, and before the man had cleared the threshold, John jabbed his fist into his throat, leaving him doubled up and gasping for breath. John grabbed his jacket, pulling him back up, and reeled back to punch him again.

Suddenly, John felt a pull from behind, forcing him to release his opponent and the arsehole collapsed again on the ground, where two men materialized to subdue and cuff him. John struggled against his captor, until he heard, echoing from down the alleyway, “Kneel, Boy.”

And a rush of pleasure coursed through John as he dropped to the ground on his knees.

-o-

The alley cleared, of the arsehole, of Mycroft’s men, and of the CCTV cameras. John stayed on his knees, head bowed, hands behind his back, and waited. Time ceased to flow, all he knew were his orders, and though the tension ebbed through his body, his mind began to clear; the firmness of Mycroft’s voice, and the very radiation of his presence bringing John back to the present; sobering him quickly.

“It appears I have been remiss in caring for you,“ Mycroft smoothly and calmly spoke, his voice gentle to sooth John’s jagged nerves. He approached John slowly, and from his pocket, withdrew John’s collar, clasping it firmly around his neck. John sagged in relief, but his body still twitched with anxiety.

“Come to me, Boy, on your knees.”

John shuffled to Mycroft, any discomfort from the gravel lost in the glory of Mycroft’s guidance. John reached Mycroft, who ran his fingers through the blond hair in appreciation, then tipped his chin up to meet John’s eyes.

“Come for me. Right here.” Mycroft ordered, in the seedy darkness of the alley. John struggled with his zip, pulling his cock from his trousers. Since Mycroft arrived, he’d been hard, ready, waiting for orders, and now, on this filthy earth, kneeling at Mycroft’s feet, staring at the expensive black leather wingtips, John achingly pumped his cock. The anxiety shivered through his body, diving down hard to reach his cock, leaving his extremities empty, and his cock brimming with vibrating ecstasy.

Mycroft dug his fingers in John’s hair, tugging tightly, and demanded, “Faster, Boy, I can’t be caught here with a filthy thing like you, wanton and needy. You are so desperate for me, for orders, and I demand, now, that you come.”

And John, at the humiliation of Mycroft’s words, and the command of his voice, shuddered through a silent orgasm, striping the luxurious leather shoes with thick ropes of come.

-o-

John sat, collar absent, in Mycroft’s den, comfortably against a soft leather sofa, with two fingers of whisky, and a glass of water to the side. Mycroft entered, seemingly casual without his suit jacket, and his cuffs rolled up to his elbows. The waistcoat remained.

“John, I have made a mistake.”

Choking on his whisky, John sputtered, “Really?”

“Rare though it may be, I have failed to consider your motivations.” Mycroft paused, then poured himself a drink and sat near John on the chesterfield.

“John, I’ve known your education and career history from the day we first met. However, I didn’t stop to imagine what exactly drove you to such aspirations. I’ve reexamined your history. You are a natural submissive.”

Sitting up, John prepared to contest Mycroft’s words, but Mycroft cut him off, “Don’t be so mundane as to assume that submission implies femininity, weakness, or any of the other stereotypes you may have unconsciously applied.

“You are motivated by praise, by success, but success that is validated by others. Your surgery, encouraged by your parents, your military service; well, in that you are unique. You didn’t find satisfaction in following orders, but in serving your fellow soldiers as a physician, serving them in saving their lives. With the exception of your commander of two years, a commander by the name of Sholto, whose praise kept you alive during your injury and dismissal.

“Next, you served my brother, though neither of you would have identified it as such.” Mycroft examined John, with laser precision, and then smiled softly. “And you’ve recently come to this realization yourself.”

Mycroft paused, refilling John’s drink, then running long fingers against John’s bicep, “I failed you this week. I will not be so remiss in the future.”

Mycroft leaned in, and placed a tender kiss to John’s temple, and John felt, for the first time in ten days, complete and absolute peace.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find more me on [Tumblr](http://phipiohsum475.tumblr.com/).  
> You can find more Johncroft at [MycroftandJohn.tumblr.com](http://mycroftandjohn.tumblr.com/).


End file.
